Jeremy stopped at the "Queen's Head" Inn at Sedlescombe for some bread and cheese and a mug of ale. He was an old campaigner and remembered the needs of the inner man.
The landlord of the "Queen's Head" appeared to be a person of sense. He had a shrewd, well-shaved face, and a mouth that spoke pleasantly, but was always able to keep something back. Jeremy chatted with him for twenty minutes. He had a queer way of getting hold of men, of making them feel the grip of his character. Jeremy asked for the Brick House.
"You mean Mounseer de Rotten's place, sir?"
"That name's good enough."
"Go straight down the village, over yon hill, and take a lane to the right. You'll see the house in a hollow."
The landlord and Jeremy looked at each other as though neither took the other for a fool.
"Does mounseer keep a big staff of servants?"
"Three, sir, so far as I know."
"Men?"
"Men, sir, yes."
"I met the Chevalier in London. I might look in on him now that I am down in these parts."
Jeremy strolled down the brick path to the white fence where a boy was holding his horse. The landlord followed at his heels, staring reflectively at the sturdy breadth of Mr. Winter's back. This was a gentleman who walked very much on his own legs.
"Roads nice and dry, sir. You might be wanting a bed for the night?"
Jeremy paused with a toe in the stirrup.
"I'll keep you in mind, landlord. How far do you call it to Mr. de Rothan's?"
"A matter of two miles, sir."
"If he hasn't a bed to spare, you may see me again. I like a quiet place, and quiet people."
"We're quiet, sir, very quiet."
"I'll remember it. Good day to you."
The landlord watched him ride off down the village.
"Hum—what's he after? A gentleman of parts. He had an eye on me for something, friendliwise. No small beer, I reckon."
Jeremy found the lane leading off the main road. It was a mere grass track with high hedges on either side of it. The red chimneys of the house showed above the thorns and hazels, and a plume of blue smoke went up against the green background of a wooded hill. A gate closed the end of the lane which opened into a meadow.
Jeremy dismounted and leaned his arms on the top bar of the gate and looked across the meadow at the Brick House with its red walls, clipped yews, and diamond-paned casements. The place looked peaceful enough in the green dip of its valley, but Jeremy was not in quest of beauty. He scrutinised every window of the house like a man staring at an ancient tablet whose writing refuses to be deciphered.
Jeremy fastened his horse to the gate-post, and looked to the priming of his pistols. He was playing a bold game, and in such case a man needs something more dangerous to rely on than his tongue. He climbed the gate and walked slowly across the meadow, slapping his right leg with a little riding switch that he carried.
When he came within twenty yards of the brick wall of the garden, he halted and stood staring at the house as though he were an antiquary studying types of English domestic architecture. Jeremy was not going to put himself within safe pistol-shot of the windows. To provoke a parley a man must not give away all his advantages.
Jeremy began to walk up and down in the line of the garden wall, keeping a sharp eye on all the windows. It was not long before he saw a face appear at one of the upper lattices. It remained there a moment, and then melted back into the shadow of the room.
Presently a servant in black livery came out from the porch, and down the path into the meadow. He approached Jeremy, and spoke in broken English.
"What will monsieur desire here?"
Jeremy stood with feet apart, hands behind his back, staring at the house.
"Good mullions, and excellent brickwork. There is a solidity about these Jacobean houses. My good fellow, is your master at home?"
"What will monsieur desire here?"
"Nothing, Pierre, nothing, but a word with your master. Tell him there is a gentleman here who is interested in old houses."
The man looked contemptuously at Winter and returned to the house. De Rothan was waiting in the hall.
"Well, François?"
"A gentleman who loves old houses."
"Thunder, what, a dry-as-dust! Go and tell him the house is not to be viewed."
François went back to Jeremy.
"Monsieur, my master the Chevalier de Rothan cannot be agreeable to your curiosity."
Jeremy's eyes twinkled.
"Go and tell him I have ridden sixty miles to see this house. If he will give me a few minutes I can explain."
This time the man was exchanged for the master. De Rothan appeared at the porch, came slowly down the path and out into the meadow. Stateliness was the pose of the moment. An aristocrat of France came to speak with some antiquarian huckster who would force himself upon an exile's privacy.
"Sir, I wish you good day."
Jeremy took off his hat and bowed. He could be damnably urbane when he was most dangerous. De Rothan had not recognised him. Who would expect to see a fencing-master from St. James's in an out-of-the-world Sussex meadow?
"Sir, I take liberties in being here. I am one of those inquisitive persons who are interested in everything."
De Rothan looked him over with supercilious politeness.
"A very admirable state of mind, but a little embarrassing at times—to others."
"You cannot be so kind as to let me see your house, Chevalier?"
De Rothan's eyelids seemed to close a little.
"My house, monsieur, is not a museum."
"But I am told there is a unique curio to be seen in it, a thing of particular, local interest——"
"Indeed! You surprise me."
"Not at all, sir, not at all. It is a gentleman who was stolen yesterday out of Darvel's Wood. I am sure you will oblige me in the matter."
De Rothan's figure seemed to lengthen. His nostrils dilated, and his eyes became very bright and staring.
"Sir, I fail to understand you. Nor do I love impertinence."
"Nor I, Monsieur de Rothan. I expect Mr. Jasper Benham to dine with me to-night. It will be courteous of you to produce the gentleman, and to deliver him over to me."
"You are talking nonsense."
"I'll wager that I am not."
They stood eyeing each other, challenging each other, gauging each other's strength and grimness.
"Who are you, and what do you want?"
Jeremy's eyes twinkled. He had been standing with hands clasped behind him. One hand had slipped itself into the tail pocket of his coat and was gripping the butt of a pistol.
He began to speak slowly, and very distinctly, looking at De Rothan from under frowning eyebrows.
"Mr. Frenchman, let us understand each other. I have two men over yonder behind the hedge; neither you nor yours can play any tricks with me. Now, I ask you, what is there to prevent me putting a bullet in your body?"
Jeremy had a pistol out, and, holding it at his hip, covered De Rothan with the muzzle.
"My good sir, this is like a stage play!"
De Rothan had nerve, and showed it in the casual way he glanced at the pistol, and then looked Jeremy in the eyes. Quick wit and audacity were divided pretty equally between them.
"Well, Chevalier, what do you say?"
"Of course, sir, if you wish to blow Mr. Benham's brains out——"
"Thanks. So I was on the mark—there."
"Do not congratulate yourself. I can tell you at once that Mr. Jasper Benham is in my house, alive and well, save for a sword thrust through the arm."
Jeremy nodded.
"You laid a trap for him and cheated him on a point of honour."
"My good sir, I outwitted him, if you call that cheating."
They were silent for a few seconds like men who break away and take breath between two bouts of boxing. Jeremy's mouth looked ugly, but he was as debonair as ever.
"Listen to me, Chevalier. This spy business of yours is over and done with. What I have to do is to call one of my men, send him galloping for half a score red-coats, and hold you here at the pistol point till they come."
"Very good, sir, very good. But I take it that you have some respect for Mr. Benham's life."
Jeremy felt the cunning of the thrust.
"No doubt."
"Very well, do what you suggest. But I warn you that I have a man in the house whom I can trust. He has had his orders. It is a nasty business blowing out a young man's brains. Faugh—you will not drive us to that!"
"You are not without daring, Chevalier."
"I am one of the eagles of adventure, sir. I play my game and I play it boldly. Mr. Benham is my hostage. I demand to be left alone, to be allowed to give my plans a fighting chance. In three weeks or so French cavalry may be sabring your red-coats in these lanes."
Jeremy reflected.
"I see your point, sir."
"Regard it in this way. I play my game—I put down my stake. This Mr. Benham blunders in and tries to upset my table. I seize him and tie him up in a corner, and, to defend myself from his friends, I have to keep a pistol levelled at this good young man's head. You see, I hold him in front of me, so to speak. Shoot, or stab at me—and Mr. Benham's body takes the first blow. What you have to decide is whether you are willing to sacrifice your friend."
"By George! Do you mean to tell me you would shoot the lad?"
"Mr. Englishman, I am the devil when I am in earnest. My man is watching you, even now. If you were to fire that pistol at me—he would do the same to Mr. Jasper Benham. You see how things stand. The decision is with you."
Very rarely had Jeremy found himself fenced with so cleverly. De Rothan held him at a disadvantage.
"Let me put things plainly. You, Chevalier, are a French spy. The truth has been discovered. You expect the French fleet in the Channel, and Napoleon to invade us. Good! To gain breathing space you tie up this lad, hold a pistol at his head, and dare us to interfere."
De Rothan bowed and smiled.
"You have summed up the situation. It is very simple."
Jeremy lowered his pistol. He was baffled, and very furious behind that imperturbable face of his.
"Very well, Chevalier. It seems that we are not in a position to quarrel."
"Mr.——?"
"Winter, sir, Jeremy Winter."
"Mr. Winter, you show good sense."
Jeremy could have twisted De Rothan's neck. The man's complacent audacity rubbed him raw.
"One thing, Chevalier. Have you any personal spite against the lad?"
He watched De Rothan narrowly.
"No more than the natural contempt of a grown man for a big fool of a boy who tries to kick him."
Jeremy's mouth betrayed sarcasm.
"I believed he kicked—with success."
But he regretted the gibe when he saw the glint in De Rothan's eyes.
"Mr. Winter, I am too big a man to bear malice."
"Thank heaven for that!"
"I hold Mr. Benham as a hostage."
"And if the French come, sir?"
De Rothan shrugged his shoulders.
"A country squireling will not matter. He will be one of a mob of sheep."
"And if the French do not come?"
"I shall still hold Mr. Benham at my mercy. He will be my shield, Mr. Winter; you will shoot or stab at me through him."
"A very convenient arrangement for you, sir. I suppose it is useless to suggest that we might come to terms and give you a safe passage out of the country?"
De Rothan smiled.
"One does not count one's winnings, Mr. Winter, till the cards are played. Especially when one holds a winning hand."
Jeremy bowed to him, and they drew apart, keeping their faces toward each other.
"Good day to you, Chevalier."
"Good day, Mr. Winter. You will be careful how you meddle in any affair of mine."